What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? (13 page)

B
ACK AT THE
Quarters, crack some beers, ’nutha twen’y dozen to add to the million pile of sweet bubblin’ foamin’ (releasing) history behind ’em, and ten thousand same repeated stories only thing’t
changed was the names — but hunters returned with the kill, Jimmy’d moved one more kaygee before their mean machine pulled up at the big gates — To heaven, eh boys! Hahahaha, they’d laughed quite seriously at Jimmy saying of arrival at the
headquarters
, each man to his private thoughts on that, if but briefly. But all one in going HEA-VAN! Bruthas! (If this’s all you know) one ofem thinking. And pas’ the unpearly gates of welded sheet-iron and razorwire-topped swinging frame they went, opened by Jimmy’s remote control,
bzzzzzzz
, he laughing at the power he held in his hands of being able to open that fucken big gate with just a touch of a button. Mulla thinking: Anyone’d think you invented it.

Jimmy in the middle of the room, music going, Chocky knowing to keep it cooler, low and toned till the beer trickled on down to their dirty li’l toes in stinking socks and went back up the utha side of veins and blooded pathways to the brain where it would mingle with the smoke, tanight’s success (even though they weren’t sure how they’d contributed to it, but claiming it jus’ the same — ’fore some utha cunt does, eh bro!) Permanent feelings, a strange swirl, like clear water clouding, to that beat-perfect voice and instrument-backed output of that bl — Negro group, Solo. Lookit the shoulders moving, tha’s the sign of what’s to come: shoulders and eyes keeping down a blink for jus’ a few sees, maybe a minute or two, when a man’s got his eyes closed he’s in a moment of a kind of honesty, with self or God or the God dwelling in even the murderous hearts like Chylo’s …

Though the man observing this, Mulla Rota, spent half of his life behind bars, thought of all the people in that room, of — he’d never counted. No one had. It never occurred to ’em to count their numbers and weigh then analyse what they had and maybe were or could be or weren’t — it was thirty tonight, ’bout that, more’d be arriving, this deal going like it had’d bring ’em from fucken
everywhere
, their li’l ratholes and gloomy residences, those who didn’t live here permanently; Mulla thinking: of all the people in the room Jimmy Bad Horse would have no God or man or idea (I mean
principle
) inim. For years he’d thought this. Of seeing Jimmy Shirkey as a man whose very core had turned to a slag, and it was utha people’s fire he pulled in as his own, utha people Jimmy built his existence with the crack running through it on, ovah there on the
cellphone, centre of the room, and how he’d made ’em, this lot (me included) reliable on him again, that was one of his secrets, it weren’t hard to do with this lot, who of us can cope with the world and the money it runs on? None, tha’s how many. Fuck none.

Mulla watched the sheila with the smoky shades come ovah to Jimmy, stroke his beard (catch you some cockroaches, sis!) jus’ when the nex’ Solo song starts, ‘In Bed’. Yeah, it would be. But this time Mulla not aching, not hurting at his own status never once attracting a sheila to come toim, not now he had one, his own woman, that was her walking in right now, so her (our) timing was right, too, with this song it was. Mulla gave her a li’l smile, more for the fullas lookin’ atim than for her, she’d know he meant sumpthin’ else which he’d prove to her lader, sooner rather than lader, hehehe, upstairs in his room an’ bedda not be anyone else using it.

The song just cruising in wither walk she’d developed since he knew her, more sure of herself, touching fullas on the face as she passed, coming for (me) Mulla. How you doing, baby? She knew not to kiss him with too much, you know. But she was allowed to givim a hug, bring her tight-hugging blood-red dress to his shape, his man outline, like a 6 an’ 9 fittin’ together. You look good, Glor. Which made her snap her fingers — blit — like she was tossing something utha than jus’ her fingers, her hip at the same time (it was love she threw) and went, Really? Ohh, Mulls. I like it when I’m, you know, ’ppreciated. And he went, with all the burning of his previously troubled being now sustantially less so, the emphasis had shifted: I never ’ppreciated no one more’n my life … Had ta swallow. And his arms went out, You know …? Yeah, she knew. And his smile coulda been the sun, even though he said it in half a whispa case one of the bruthas heard. Her smile wasn’t so bad either. Not after he tole her that come t’morrow they were gonna have one huge fucken payday. Not after he tole her it might be in the thousands — cash.

S
OME TIME THAT
night
Glori
us, Mulla remembered Jimmy Bad Horse’d gotta group of prospec’s together, summoned ’em to his mighty (reputed) presence and tole ’em the Browns were on their way and what they were gonna do was, like, extend their activities; Mulla and Gloria stoned off their faces but of course something in
the being stoned having the opposite effect, like the water was cleared again, so he had recall that Jimmy’s edict to these young fullas was, they should pick places that were good places to burgle, they should look around for good hold-up jobs, like banks an’ that when Mulla Rota couldn’t figure what else was a that. Which’d get ’em in the gang, patched up, like in their dreams that Mulla Rota in his heretic mind was beginning to think was a stupid dream, why didn’t they come to him and aks what it was like spending mosta that dream life behind bars. Why di’n’t they come to Mulla Rota so he could tellem (in private), Man, this ain’t what you think it is, bein’ a patched-up member. Whassa use of a gang patch if you gotta do five, six, maybe more years inside for it? An’ tha’s jus’ each stretch. An’ what if you kill (smoke, waste) someone? What then, kid, of your life?

But he c’d hardly tell ’em that, and anyrate he was stoned and so was Gloria. They danced to a Solo number, Heaven, what they’d laughed and thought about as they drove in the big gates tanight, a cruisy number, soul baby, it was soul they flowwwwed to, 6 with 9 dancing 8’s on the (dirty) floor. Who loves ya, babe? Oh, Glor. Oh, Mulls. Then it was XXTRA the nex’ Solo number and utha couples, and lone dudes, out on the floor, this world (of sounds) belongin’ to them and they were both saving up their horniness till they couldn’t stand it no longer; so Mulla and her went upstairs to fuck and make love, Jimmy’s words to the pros’s even less than half a echo as they walked down the passageway above and the sound below farther and farther away from, well, love. It mus’ be love.

She said it herself and so did he. (I did. I said it.) He tole her: Glor, oh shit, Glor, I — Well, I, uh — Hon, I love you, too. It was like a starburst above the blanket-stink bed, no sheets, a score times his sperm stains and her wet juice stains’d added to the bed’s history, on the wall a name scratched where uthas’d lain here, one was Nig H. Beside it a T. Mulla knew the H stood for Heke. And he knew who it was Nig’d shared this bed with, the T for Tania. As he knew who it was sent poor Nig — man, he was shaking so hard he rattled — to his death. Oh look! the stars are all out tanight, hon, she snuggled up to chest, his arms feeling so protective, so with wanting that went beyond this room these walls this converted two houses, beyond even those stars out there if it is man who gives the
stars their meaning an’ not the utha way round. For the firs’ time in his dreadful life Mulla Rota wanted to give his entire soul to
someone
, and it weren’t jus’ her, Gloria Jones (Mrs Rota) beside him looking out the curtainless window at the stars, it was her kids, Turi an’ Narissa (whadda nice name that is): Mulla Rota wanted to give himself to the whole unit of ’em. Why he was smarting with tears inis eyes, trying to keep them from rolling down his tattooed face, his endured electric-needle marks meant to signify he wassa tough cunt.

O
H,
J
AKEY, SHE’D
said. But you still the man, honey. You still love the best. ’Cept he’d thought if tha’s the case then how come she don’t, you know. Not that I love her or want her to love me. But shit, a man — a man needs a boost now and then (even me).

He went, Tha’ right? I’m still a good lover? Her round-faced smile up atim, he’d only jus’ rolled off her (done it good, even if I say so myself), her moaning still in his ear, twice she’d come. Still, Jake Heke, she said it again. But he finding himself sorta poised, or tensed, for her to say those words: The Muss. But then he c’d hardly ask her straight out why she didn’t, even though she always did, but always. Or after they’d made love she did. Why, sometimes it even came with a joke referring to that muscle (muss) down there, how good it’d performed. Anyrate, it next occurred that he wasn’t exactly hanging out to hear that ole familiar (reassuring) term. (Cos I ain’t. Not now. Muss be the activities you been gettin’ up to, Jakey boy.) Grinning to himself.

Lying on her big wide bed (like her spread thighs of woman giving out a baby or her body to a man as if she knows he’s a baby, too) with sheets, yellow ones, smell like perfume and soap mixed together, kinda nice, curtains hanging heavy (from the weight of all them flowers!), a wall of detailed depiction Jake now and then sniffed the air case he could, you know, like smell ’em, you never knew with these whitemen makers (and breakers) of things (and men) they mighta put sumpthin’ in the material to make it smell like it looked: fucken beautiful, tell the truth. A wall of different coloured flowers across the windows, and on the drawers thing there a vase which he always looked at for the real flowers it held, this time a spray like a — like a — well it reminded a man of a lion’s mane which wasn’t right, not for flowers, the proud way they rose up larger than the shoulders (vase) — no, forget the lion’s head, tha’s jussa firs’ try, make it like one a them peacocks, a burst ’f colour, a — hahaha (pea)cock display — promising himself yet again he was gonna fill his li’l vase, just the once, jus’ to say he’d done it.

On his bus recently he’d got the shock of his life to see a famous fulla, John Kirwan, the All Black, holding a buncha flowers
and words underneath telling (a man) the bus sitters, Say It With Flowers, sumpthin’ like that. Fact it’d tole a man a bit more than jus’ that, ’cept he wouldn’t let it get quite through.

Come to think of it this was a nice house, nicest he’d even been in; he’d never taken any notice before (I only came here to fuck Rita, hahaha!), she musta been married to a rich fulla; Jake knew the ex was a white (a honky shet) and that she’d given him the boot, which was a never-failing reminder every time of his own former marital situation of Beth giving him (me) the boot. ’Cept he didn’t leave her with no flash house, jus’ kids including a dead one shortly followed by anutha dead one (jeez). Now look where she was. Then he thought: Now look where I am. Same thing. So he got up on his elbows and powerful arms and tole Rita, You got a nice house, Ri. Why thank you, Jake The Muss — oh, she looked pretty when she smiled like that — as he touched her lifted right eyebrow cocked at him. Made him want to — to make love to her again. (Make love? Ooo, now Jakey boy, aren’t you becoming the one!) Inside laughing at himself his softer thoughts. Told himself it was cos it was the second time so a man was with a different drive, another kind of energy from the first (which is, face it, man, all pumping muscle and the cock is the main muscle (muss,
haha-haha
!) an’ tha’s the truth).

Not that he had any similar type of house to compare it with, not one. His whole lifetime’s experience had been a singular
standard
of low. Low low. So how did he know this was a nice house? he asked himself. Rita, would you say this house is … He wasn’t quite sure how to out it, but he pushed on. You know, is it a nice place to — (I know): Your honky-ex think it was alright?

She gave a slightly colder smile, told him, Don’t call him that. We’re still friends you know. (Friends?) I thought you gave him the boot? He was getting confused, when all he’d tried to ask was a simple question: was this a good house by most standards or fucken not? I did ask him to leave. You know why? No, he didn’t, as it happens. (I never asked.) He was unfaithful to me. Which had Jake blurt out in chortling laughter and she asked him why the laugh — mate? That last word in the tone of a man saying — bud. Unfaithful? he shook his head down ater. That’s right, what I said, Jake The Muss: unfaithful. He shook his head more vigorously:
Well you ain’t Two Lakes’ most … you know. Then her hand came up, against his bare chest pushing him away. Told him, When I was married I was. (Oh.) Oh. Yeah, you should be saying oh. And sorry with it.

He tried to laugh it off, her change of attitude but she rolled him right off her. And told him: Know why I play the field now as it suits? Because I promised myself I’d never let another man hurt me.

She didn’t say it, but he could see in her face like he was
hurting
her now, though he still wasn’t quite sure why. Hurting her, anyone for that madda, was the last thing he wanted. (’Nless they out to hurt me firs’. Then I’ll waste ’em.) Hey, he grabbed her — admittedly a little too hard, why she pulled away from him quite violently and looked atim like those sixteen years ole familiar eyes of Beth’s — Mister, please don’t grab me like that again. (Fuck!) This was turning from being Two Lakes’ best lover to the country’s biggest arsehole. Ri, I’m sorry. Okay? Jake is sorry. (Goddamit) but she shook her head. Don’t say to me Jake’s sorry. Why not? Thought tha’s what you wanted me to say. Why not? Because it removes yourself from responsibility, if you can spell the word, she near spat those words atim she did.

He took a moment to figure it. Alright: I’m sorry. Ri, please, come and lie down again. Shit, I only wanted to know if this house was, you know, by the standards a — a — (Fuckit). Oh, fuckit. Can’t a man ask a simple question w’out you jumpin’ onim? And he got up. So they were both standing, naked, on opposite sides of the bed. Glaring. Well, he was, then she was, then he wasn’t, but he was about to turn and get dressed and fuck off outta here, fuck this, fuck women, fuck the world, fuck wanting to know how good this house is — Next time, Jakey baby, we’re doing it at your house. She smiled all ovah him. All fucken ovah.

He said, Wha’? Which in the ole days woulda meant, what’d you say, followed by the business. Fists. But here in this softly lit, lampshaded room — a kinda pale red-wine colour they were, not that Jake made that comparison, he made it with blood — a woman iner mid-forties, three grown-up children left of their mark in zigzag stripes around her lower belly, a bit of a pot there, but the whole picture held together pretty tight, the tits nice an’ big an’ still
firm, a stripe of pubes’t ran like a dark, promising tongue from up underneath her where it counted, a picture on the wall behind her of colour splashes in that modern style a man couldn’t be expected to unnerstan’, in here in her bedroom he meant only to express simple surprise. And now his head running with making sure he’d have the place spick and span and maybe, jus’ maybe, he’d get Cody to buy some flowers for that vase sitting like a unwanted, unloved mother without her only purpose in life.

Her real tongue came out and licked the top lip. Where he’d a li’l while back had his mouth planted, but there had been more gentle moments of just lingering butterfly kiss, or whatever they called it in the books a man never read. You heard, she told him. Your place, to say it again, Jake Heke.

He found a smile back. My place, eh? Yes, your place. How many times I gotta say it? (A few more’n that, lady, if you’re to
reassure
me.) I got no sheets. That took her back a step. She lifted a finger atim, Jake Heke, you’d better have some when I get there or … (Or what? She won’t come see me? Is that what I want?) Asking himself was he really trying to discourage her and if so, why? (Cos I’m afraid, the voice jumped out at him before he could ready himself against hearing it. And it kept going. Cos I’m frightened of getting close to someone. I’m frightened of —) Fuckit. He got back on top of the inner voice, or enough to move this on without
turning
it back to the hopeless point it was at.

I don’t get much pay. Really? She cocked the eyebrow with a different gun. Then you’d better ask your boss for some overtime and a raise while you’re at it. Now that was a thought. But he got pictures of his rented-from-the-State place compared to this and started shaking his head. And thinking if he got his clothes on he could fight this a bit better. But then she was nude, too. I got that young fulla Cody, and mosta the time his mates, staying. Really? The fucken eyebrow again. A man felt like ducking just in case it fired bullets. (Hahaha.) He lifted his proudly muscled chest and not too much protrusion of stomach down there for forty-two, told her, I got rugby on Sat’days now. His first game yet to come. And: I tole you ’bout the pig hunting yet?

She shook her head. No. No, you haven’t told me much of yourself, about anything you do or think. Why I’m giving you the
opportunity, Jake, in the comfort of your own surrounds. He exploded in laughter then. What surrounds is this, lady? But she only smiled from her repertoire of them, The surrounds I expect you’ll be making for my visit, Jake … (Jake the what?) You might like to buy pale blue sheets, they’d suit you. Ya think so? He shifted his naked weight from one foot to the other, somehow she’d got on top of him without any effort. Yeah, I think so.

He looked at her yellow sheets, at her, back at the sheets. She inclined her head, jus’ the once, in a nod. And lay oner back like she was giving birth to him, that’s what it felt like.